


Jerk

by bactaqueen



Category: Rancid (Band)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2291783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim masturbates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jerk

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental.
> 
> Author's Note: Originally posted September 2006.

It’s easier like this, alone in the warm semi-darkness of his home bedroom. The glowing digits of the clock say it’s half past seven. The little red circles at the edge of the screen don’t work, so he doesn’t know if it’s morning or evening. It doesn’t matter. The light that edges around the opaque shades and penetrates the gray shadows of the room is orange--Los Angeles orange. Smog, smut, and sin. It all gets into the air and fucks up the light refraction.  
  
He isn’t sure if he slept or not. His eyes are dry, not bleary, but that doesn’t really mean anything. He pushes himself up and leans back against the headboard. The petals of the intricate mahogany rose cut into his shoulder and the prick of pain dulls quickly into the collective ache. Everything hurts, what’s one more injury? The ache is in his skin, in his bones, deeper. So much deeper.   
  
His soul hurts.  
  
Listlessly, he reaches for the crumpled pack of cigarettes and the cheap lighter that wait for him on the nightstand, next to the clock and the stereo remote and against the base of the ceramic lamp. He sucks one from the package and lights the end of it, then inhales deeply and sets the pack and the lighter back where they belong. His smoky blue eyes train unseeing on the far window and he drifts again.  
  
It isn’t until the ash burns his bare thigh that reality and sense occur to him. He’s alone. He’s naked. He’s half-asleep, maybe. And he’s hard.   
  
The dreams escape him; he never can remember them. He can smell them, though, even now, and he gets the scents confused. He can’t remember who belongs to what scent, knows only that all the memories are a jumbled mess and he doesn’t have the energy to sort them out. Not that it matters.   
  
The remote is light, cool, smooth in his hand. The button is worn under his thumb, and once pressed, turns on the expensive stereo. Then the quiet sounds of forced foreplay fill his lonely bedroom and the fact that this is fabricated desire doesn’t matter, either.  
  
His head goes back, cuts the shape of a leaf into his scalp, overlapping the tattoo. His eyes slip shut and he sucks a lungful of smoke from the cigarette between his lips as his hand steals down to his thigh and beneath the edge of the yellowed sheet. She’s just getting started--touched for the first time, made to understand what will happen--and so is he. He’s done this so many times he can barely come any other way. These are not things to think about. The calloused tips of his fingers find the side of his cock and he runs them down it.   
  
Do you like that, Daddy?  
  
Touch me here, baby.  
  
Do it again, Timmy.  
  
Voices. Little girl voices, scratchy woman voices, deceptively feminine voices. He’s never alone. He never will be alone.   
  
She’s picking up steam and he’s passing the palm of his hand over the head of his cock. It comes away slick, but he prefers the burning friction of his rough hand and wipes it off in the sheet. He wraps his fingers around the thick shaft--he’s always been proud of his cock, the shape and heft of it--and tips his head back. He doesn’t need to pretend this is anything but what it is.   
  
He designed this. He wrote it, mixed it, copied it, burned it. It exists as his perfection, and if anyone ever found out about it, he wouldn’t deny it. His strokes slow and speed with the ebb and flow of her arousal. Things intensify--in his mind’s eye, the red lips of her mouth are swollen and open and so are the pink lips of her cunt, and he knows this is just what she looks like before she--  
  
Tim!  
  
There.   
  
His breath is short and the cigarette that dangles from his lips is in danger of being crushed. Now it’s moans. A cacophony. A waterfall. Delicious, beautiful... mixed. Soft moans and breathy pants, hers and now someone else’s. Someone male.  
  
Because for a long time now, that boy--man, now, with his dark eyes and sharp face and long fingers--has been a mainstay in these fantasies.  
  
But these sounds are stolen. Borrowed. Used for this and only this. A groan rises from his lips. His hand speeds, his grip tightens. After she comes, it never takes him long. All he can think about is her body spread before him, a long-fingered hand around his cock as he kneels between her spread legs, and soft pierced lips on his hot shoulder. The confusion of gender, of the feminine and the masculine, vanquished for these precious moments of pleasure.   
  
Ecstasy causes the scratches of his short nails across the ridges of his stomach and the inked words there. He comes in spurts on his belly and chest and thighs and the sheets. His breath is harsh in his own ears and those moans that aren’t his own are so sweet, even as they die down and go silent in a trickle. He pumps until his cock is soft again, releases it. Fingers slide through cooling glaze, just for the sensory contact. His body relaxes, muscle by muscle, and he shuts off the stereo.   
  
He’s still alone. He leans over, finds another cigarette and the lighter, strikes up another flame and takes a long and satisfying drag. He sits in the strange orange darkness and smokes, thinking of nothing.   


End file.
